Merrimack The Golden Door
Eyes watching in contemplation
Eyes watching eyes with hunger
Eyes watching eyes watching in obscene vertigo
Eyes watching eyes watching eyes in the alcoves of the
golden door, to which incongruous burning dreams have
designed the way and the need. Behind the golden door is
a land of storms, raging, clammy and feverish and its
lightnings pierce the broken eggs of your eyes.
Sacrificing to the religion of treachery and betrayal,
the broken eyes slip in wet cavities, entering tunnels to
the dark homes thereunder. In exaltation or in necessity,
the rapes of the night carve their way through the burden
of the tasteless standards of castration, feeding the
rage inside, urging to enter the kingdom of
transgression, its divine wildness, celebrating the
wicked appeasement through degradation, ordure and
impudence. Pounding the solar splendour with absurd yet
passionate anger until the grey hours of little death,
sign of a cosmic void, an absence just too present,
choking the possibilities of it not to spread and triumph
over divineless will. The golden door and its bitter
rains falling of the cheeks like obscene tears, sacred
gate to abnormal mysteries where the dogs are unleashed
after innocence. And the vile torrents daze the soul in
lascivious drunkenness to finally erase all the
boundaries. The solar passage banishes the shame and let
the will betray the shells of the past to better find its
way towards the last of the houses.
